Land of the Beautiful Dead (20 page)

Lan screamed—a hoarse, unlovely, dog-like baying. Azrael staggered, slapping his assassin to the ground as the sound still hung in the air and then there were pikemen on every side, breaking around him like black waves. Lan had not heard their running boots, but she heard the sound it made when a body is pierced—it is a quiet sound—and she heard it over and over and over. Batuuli applauded and Solveig joined in, as if the execution of their father’s attacker were just another act in the play, but not even their fawning courtiers dared to follow along.

Lan twisted free of the hands that held her and ran forward, only to be seized and thrown down beside the other woman with a boot in her back and a pike digging into the side of her neck. From that vantage, with Azrael a thousand feet tall above her, she saw his hand close around the fork imbedded in his head. He pulled it out, inch by slow inch, as if it had been sunk in tar, and like tar, it came burning, dripping white fire in clots that turned grey in the open air and burned away before they hit the ground. Fresh flame sparked in his smoldering socket. He looked at the fork, the tines now bent and charred black, and threw it away.

He lunged, batting pikemen aside like curtains to seize the woman on the floor and lift her by her throat high over his head. There was blood all down her chest, blood still pouring out of her, streaming down his arm, spattering his face—more blood than anyone could lose and live, and Lan could see her dying, see the terrified, trembling smile as she looked down past the clawed hand that held her and spat onto his golden mask.

Azrael did not flinch. He let her defiance trickle down his false face and merely said, “I would have let you live, human. And now…I will not let you die.”

There was a sound, but Lan didn’t hear it with her ears. It struck just once, charging the air like lightning, and then Azrael let her drop.

She struck the floor and lay weakly kicking and writhing for as long as it took her to die—not long—and then was still.

And then, slowly, she sat up. One of her hands rose and made weak scratching motions over her chest. Her mouth gaped. She shook her head twice side to side, like an unbroken ox trying to throw its yoke, then heaved up a tremendous amount of blood and fell back again. She lay choking, her lungs too full of blood for air, and Lan had to see that awful confusion fill her eyes as she began to realize she didn’t need air after all. She wasn’t dying; she was dead.

“No!” Lan cried.

“No?” Azrael swung around and advanced on her as the pikeman hurriedly pulled her to her feet. “You tell
me
no? Am I the villain here? I, the murderer? How can that be?” he demanded, his voice rising to a deafening roar. “
She will never die
! Get her out of here!”

The pikeman at her back caught Lan’s arm and dragged her away at what was nearly a run.

“And you,” Azrael said.

Batuuli’s voice, calm and smiling: “I?”

“Have you nothing to say?”

“Now that you mention it, you’ve ruined my play.”

“Have I? That can be amended.”

Lan looked back, just in time to see Azrael seize Batuuli by her braids and pull her across the table, smearing her fine white gown with pork grease and wine as she gasped and even struggled in a small, startled way.

“You seem to be missing a player,” Azrael snarled and threw his daughter at the lead actor. “Proceed.”

And then, thankfully, Lan was out and the dining hall doors slammed shut on the first of Batuuli’s outraged screams.

CHAPTER SIX

E
very night that Lan had so far spent in Haven was the worst, but the night that followed Batuuli’s play was as far above the previous worst as the stars were above the Earth. In the Red Room, removed from the sights and sounds, she tortured herself with an endless cycle of memories and imagination, until they began to blur together.

‘Am I the villain here?’ he had asked and sometimes, she wished she’d answered him, screamed ‘Yes!’ and slapped and even spit, the way the other woman had, the way her mother surely would have done, while Lan only lay there on the floor and watched. And sometimes she thought of other answers, calm words and reasoned arguments she could sand down and polish and reshape here in her tower until she was certain they would have convinced him, and that other woman would be dead now and at peace, and what the hell, maybe he would even be sorry.

Am I the villain
? He’d killed her, but wouldn’t let her die.
Am I the villain
? But she’d stabbed him.
Am I the villain
? But she’d been captured and held down to be publicly violated and murdered in that roomful of laughing, costumed dead people.
Am I the villain
? It was Batuuli’s fault, but Batuuli had been captured too, in a way, pulled out of her own life and forced to perform in his play, the one in which she was his daughter.

The wheel kept turning, no beginning and no end. There were no villains or they all were, and in either case, nobody got what they deserved.

Adrenaline doesn’t last and, without it, horror is exhausting. Lan stubbornly waited, sometimes leaning up against her heavy door, straining to hear screams, and sometimes standing at her narrow window, imagining she smelled smoke, but mostly just sitting on the bed and doing nothing, thinking nothing. Eventually, she crawled beneath it and gave in to sleep.

Neither boots on the stair nor the heavy door opening woke her in the morning. Instead, it was a cold hand gripping her bare ankle, which was so unexpected that Lan bolted upright, or would have done if she hadn’t been partly underneath the bed. After delivering herself a solid crack to the skull, Lan wriggled out into the red light of a very early day and peered up into Lady Batuuli’s smiling face.

She had one clear thought—
She woke me up so I’d see death coming
—but she did absolutely nothing about it. There was nothing to be done, she would tell herself later, and later still she would tell herself there wouldn’t have been time anyway, but the reality was, she just lay there and she would always know it.

“Join me for breakfast,” Batuuli said, then turned around and swept out again.

Lan sat on the floor long enough to convince herself that had indeed happened. When it sank all the way in, she got up and made her way down the stairs in the dark.

Batuuli was waiting for her in the grand corridor, although she did not acknowledge her when Lan finally appeared. Without so much as a glance in her direction, Batuuli left off her disinterested inspection of a painting and walked away. The guards posted along the walls nodded as she passed by. Servants, mostly dead but some living, had to stop as well, bowing themselves almost in half as they scurried about their morning duties. No one paid any attention at all to Lan.

“What is this about?” Lan asked.

“Patience.”

“Fuck patience. Answer me.”

Batuuli threw her a laughing glance. “The last stupid girl who raised her voice to me had her mouth sewn shut around an iron ring,” she said pleasantly. “The ring was attached to a wire and the wire to a weight. The weight was thrown from the roof. The ring made such a cheerful sound when it struck the pavement. Her teeth made a sound like rain.”

They walked, and when Lan had been quiet enough long enough, Batuuli said, “I have plans. You will not impede them. Only be a good girl and do as you’re told and your part will end quickly.”

“My part? Another play?”

“How forceful you are. And no, I never repeat my tricks, particularly those that end so badly. Listen,” Batuuli said, now with the faintest hint of annoyance. “This morning is nothing to do with you. You’re a prop, like the dagger in Lady MacBeth’s hand—vital to your scene, but silent. Understand?”

“Who’s Lady MacBeth?”

“Just be quiet.”

Batuuli’s retinue was not in evidence today when they reached her chambers, but the table that had been arranged in her receiving room was set for three, with food enough for ten. Whatever space this left on the table was occupied by sprays of flowers wrapped in ribbons and strings of pearls, and to either side, like bookends on a shelf, were the two flayed pikemen who had escorted Lan to Azrael’s dining hall that first night.

“I agree,” Batuuli commented, coming to stand at Lan’s side as she stared in horrified fascination at one of their flayed, burnt, blinking faces. “It isn’t very nice. But it was a gift and gifts should always be visible when the giver comes calling.”

As if summoned by these words, Azrael opened the door. He took two steps and stopped when he saw Lan.

“Father, you’re early.” Batuuli gestured toward the wall where her handmaidens stood in a silent row. “Feel free to entertain yourself while I dress my guest. Celestine, come and lick my father’s cock.”

One of the handmaidens stepped forward. Azrael stopped her with a raised hand. Behind his mask, his fiery eyes were cold. “I should have known this was some game of yours when I received the invitation.”

“Yes, you really should have. But now you might as well stay and play, since all the pieces are in place.” Batuuli took Lan’s arm and led her from the room, making certain to steer her so close to Azrael in passing that they could not help but touch.

He did not look at her.

In Batuuli’s bedchamber, the rest of the handmaidens were waiting and at their Lady’s signal, they descended on Lan as a unified force. The previous night’s gown, considerably the worse for having been slept in, was stripped away. Lan’s naked body was scrubbed with a cold sponge, dried with a rough cloth and then lotioned. In less than a minute, the process was complete and she was hurried to a wardrobe to make a selection of the gowns displayed there.

“Nothing too rich,” Batuuli mused, pulling out dresses and tossing them to the ground. “We want morning colors…rose…lavender…yellow?” She put a gauzy slip up to Lan’s neck, only to wince elaborately. “Definitely not yellow.”

“What am I doing here? Really?”

“Really, did you say? And when have I ever lied to you?” Batuuli played at pouting, but then turned to face her fully. “I want to hurt him. You’re going to help me.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will. You already are. You looked at him with the same eyes that saw his true face…and then his true self.” Batuuli smiled. “You could not have stabbed him deeper than if you’d used a carving fork.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“You’re delightful when you bristle, but we haven’t the time, dear. Just think. It’s entirely to your benefit that Father is reminded what a brute he is, isn’t it? How else can you possibly hope to convince him that life—” She steepled her hands beneath her chin and raised her eyes to heaven. “—is precious?” And she laughed.

“What do you want me to do?” Lan asked tightly.

“Why, nothing! Just sit and eat and look at him.” Batuuli spread her arms, demonstrating the great nothing she asked of her.

Lan reached into the wardrobe.

“Oh no!” Batuuli said, laughing harder. “You haven’t the complexion to wear white! Nor the virtue, I should think.”

Lan pulled it over her head.

Batuuli sighed and put the other dresses back. “Oh just stop, you’re making a muddle of it. Serafina! Ariel!”

The handmaidens chased Lan’s hands away from the gown and straightened it out in seconds. Worse than the feeling of being dressed was knowing she’d needed help; what she’d thought was the neck-hole turned out to be a sleeve and what had seemed to be a belt was actually the top. She was not dressed as much as draped, which should have made her look like one of the statues in the great hall but didn’t. She looked like what she was—a farmer wrapped in white cloth.

The handmaidens descended on her again and in another minute, her hair was brushed and artfully piled atop her head, her face was painted and there were sandals tied to her feet.

“The difference really is dramatic,” Batuuli remarked, inspecting the end result. “Even if it isn’t quite successful.”

Lan plucked self-consciously at a fold of her gown. The handmaiden Serafina slapped her hand and readjusted the draping.

“Well, let’s not keep Father waiting.” Batuuli took her arm and led her back to her receiving room. Azrael had seated himself at the center of the table, forcing Lan to sit next to one of the mutilated pikemen. So close, the smell was inescapable—not rot and only faintly of char, but just the stink of open wounds. Her stomach clenched as her plate was filled with pasties and fruit; she picked one up, but put it down again when the pikeman beside her groaned.

“Hush,” said Azrael, holding out his plate so a servant could drizzle a sliced pear with honey.

The pikeman quieted.

Coffee was presented, along with cream, sugar, cinnamon and chocolate, but although Lan mixed herself her favorite concoction, she only sat there stirring it. Azrael’s appetite seemed undiminished by his surroundings or the tension in the air, which was such that every scrape of Azrael’s fork seemed to fall directly on Lan’s ear.

Batuuli sat watching them and sipping tea. At length, she sighed. “Father, you’re being terribly rude.”

Azrael cut into a hot pastry and did not respond.

“I understand why you might not wish to run through the usual boring pleasantries with me, but what of our guest? Surely she deserves at least a token acknowledgement.”

Lan glanced at him. He continued to give his breakfast his full attention, eating mechanically and without enjoyment.

“She chose the dress herself,” Batuuli said, smiling into her cup.

Azrael’s eyes shifted in the sockets of his mask, staining the white fabric of Lan’s dress briefly whiter, making it almost seem to glow. Still he said nothing.

“You know, I never had the chance to ask, between one thing and another yesterday.” Batuuli waved at the air, fanning away all the unpleasantness of the previous day’s events like a fart. “But how did you enjoy your new pet? I confess I didn’t think it much of an honor when you sent her to me to be prepared, but I did take some pride in my work. The least you could do is tell me how I did. Was she pleasing? Were her cheeks like pale roses just blushed with dawn’s color? Her lips like sweet berries? Her eyes like…What color are your eyes?” she asked, leaning over the table to peer at Lan’s face. “Her eyes like puddles of rainwater on a filthy road. Did her face please you, Father? Did her scrawny body twine about you in new and exciting ways? Did she charm you? Win you? Fascinate your senses and stimulate your passions? Did she get your cock hard?”

“Mind your tongue.”

“Father never divulges bedroom secrets,” Batuuli told Lan. “Which is amusing, because he’s been happy enough to plow his cum-pockets in front of us in the past.”

Azrael’s cup slammed down, making Lan jump and Batuuli raise an eyebrow in polite inquiry.

“Did I say cum-pockets?” she asked with elaborate surprise. “How embarrassing. I meant courtesans. Do forgive me, although I daresay our guest has been called worse in her time.” She turned to Lan. “Haven’t you?”

“I have, as a matter of fact.”

“You see? All friends here. So.” She poured herself a fresh cup of tea and tossed the pot to the floor. It burst in a billow of shards and steam. Her handmaidens came running while Batuuli added a spoonful of sugar and stirred, smiling over at Lan. “How was he?”

Lan rolled her eyes and poked at the filling of her pastry. It was some kind of red jam. She didn’t feel like tasting it to find out what kind.

“I’m told you were out of his chambers less than an hour after entering. Much less. One wonders if perhaps the anticipation got the best of him. It’s happened before.”

Azrael tipped his head, regarding his daughter with the cold curiosity of a man watching the behavior of a bug. “You were told, were you? By whom?”

“Well, that’s the thing about the dead,” said Batuuli, buttering a scone. “Unless their glorious lord gives them a specific order to the contrary, they tend to be rather stupid about indelicate matters. And I am one of your Children, after all. Why shouldn’t they answer? So when I asked how long you rode your pretty pony—”

“That is enough.”

Batuuli looked up, her brows arched in feigned surprise. “Shall I not call her that either? My, you are feeling particular this morning. What would you prefer? Your pleasure dove? Your sister of mercy? Or, what was the word you used?” she asked Lan.

“Dolly,” said Lan.

Azrael’s eyes sparked in the sockets of his mask.

“No, not that. The other one.” Batuuli tapped at the corner of her mouth, pretending to think, then snapped her fingers and said, “Your dirty whore!”

Lan’s face warmed. She put her fork down and folded her hands tightly in her lap.